Mother, her hand in the small of my back. Mother, her imperatives, her desires. Mother gave me the final injunction, final push, and I stood on the floor. It was right, proper, no more than I should do, she said, and I stood there, exposed and trembling. And the music started, and I began to move. These were old men, respectable men. Powerful men, friends of Uncle, who is now Father. And as I moved, their faces changed. I saw the desire there, stronger even than on the faces of the young men I stole covert sideways glances at, as I walked the palace: the young men I wanted to see the glance, the just-enough modest sideways glance.
I danced, and was half caught by the music, and half feeding on those stares, that desire. Their glances dripped down my thighs like sweat. Their hunger gathered at the tips of my breasts, fumbled over my nipples, hardened by their gaze. I could taunt, I could tease, and they wanted more, more. These rulers were mine to torment. I was gulping down this power, and becoming drunk on it, instead of the music, which is my familiar master.
Afterwards, afterwards, when I asked for his head, I was still drunk. Now I see the grey face, and the eyes still bright and open as though they would fascinate, and what is done is done, and cold water douses every flame. I am soaked and shaking, the cold contents of the bucket of reality thrown in my face. There is not much blood, the soldiers have wiped it away. Just some staining on the neck, and a little ooze on the plate. I carry it to mother.